Both Sides Of A Coin
by Beingextremelycleveruphere
Summary: (RW OF THE DOCTORS) When John and the Doctor both lose Sherlock and the Ponds, they must come to terms with grief on their own. The friends meet again in the hope that their shared pain will lessen it, what begins is two separate journeys to let go that lead to events that give the Doctor a new mystery, and John- new hope that his old friend is alive. Post ATM TRF. PLEASE REVIEW.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so this is a retelling or rewrite, if you like, of 'The Doctors'. I really hope you like it, because I lost my muse a bit for this story, and now this one has more of a structured plot now so YAY!**

**I don't have a update schedule yet- maybe you guys could suggest a day? But I am super happy for you to take this journey into Wholock with me, and I would love some reviews to tell me how it's going?**

**H x**

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**Both Sides Of A Coin**

**Chapter 1**

The Doctor whistled happily as he pulled the rag from his tool belt and gave a drooping wire a little bit of a clean. He sat between the many wires, tubes and components, on the underside of the glass floor, rocking slightly as the old leather swing swayed with his movements. His braces were attached to black jeans that were slightly to short, showing off his boots, and they hung limp off of his shoulders so he had free movement to reach up into the wires, as he grasped the old rag in one hand and the other was stretched up, checking the connections and coils; tinkering with a haphazard smile on his face that resembled that of a 12 year old boy who had gotten the perfect toy at Christmas. Suddenly, the TARDIS phone rang, blaring through the peaceful quiet.

"Ponds!" The Doctor called out, not liking being disturbed and hoping that either the Legs or the Nose would get it. He hadn't the time and if it was Marilyn again…well. But it continued to ring. "Ponds! The phone!" He shouted from his hiding place. Then a voice echoed through the TARDIS corridors with an unmistakably irritated Scottish twang.

"Get it yourself!" shouted Amelia Pond, the annoyance obvious in her voice. The Doctor inclined his head, accepting the statement. Maybe he should get it himself on second thoughts. He'd long since learned not to get between humans and their lie-ins.

The Doctor shook his head and grumbled at the disturbance, hopping of of his swing and replacing his burgundy suspenders over a blue shirt. He adjusted his matching red bow tie before going up to the console with all the lanky grace of a baby deer, the phone still ringing.

He cleared his throat, picked up the frankly annoying phone and answered with a chipper voice and a smile, one elbow resting on his console. "Hello! This is the Doctor! Who and when are you, and what can I do for you?"

"Doctor." A level, clip and emotionless voice crackled through the phone speaker. The Doctor knew exactly who it was as he shoved his goggles from his eyes onto his forehead, gripping the phone tighter. He did know that voice, but it was one very rare occasions that he heard it. How had he gotten this number? But, with his connections, the Doctor wasn't really surprised.

"Mycroft Holmes. Is this about Torchwood again?" There were only so many times he could tell the man that he had no control over Torchwood, and indeed, very little to like about them apart from a little team stationed in Cardiff. But he'd not seen Jack in a while. He'd get around to it. Maybe. But the even tone of Mycroft Holmes cut across the Doctor's admirable huff. It seemed he wasn't in the mood for a chat.

"No, it's not about bloody Torchwood." Mycroft snapped, making the Doctor frown. It was very rare to hear him break composure. Something was up. He waited patiently, the phone clutched to his ear, for Mycroft to continue. "I made…a mistake, Doctor."

In the TARDIS, the Doctor sat down with a thunk onto the beige leather chair, one hand on his forehead. That wasn't good. Mycroft's tone had died down to a whisper, and admission of guilt. Mycroft Holmes never made a mistake…and it wasn't a very good thing that he had. The Doctor's mind whirred with possibilities as he answered, almost automatically.

"What?" He asked. Then he heard something, and looked up towards the top of his main flight of steps as the sound of padded footsteps growing louder, as Amy's slippers, well, slipped into view. She plodded down, mouthing Who is it? He brushed her off with a wave of an impatient hand, returning his focus to the phone and waiting for Mycroft's answer.

"He's...he's going to jump. It's Moriarty." responded the formal voice and the Doctor heard a tremor in his voice. "Sherlock…he's going to die." The Doctor's eyes flew wide. "You have to help me."

"But I can't." The Doctor answered quickly, an automatic recall. He couldn't change time. He couldn't prevent it, not now.

"I have all the Torchwood files in front of me, UNIT as well, and your friend…Captain Jack informed me of your…remarkable blue box." Mycroft's voice held a whisper of hope that went right to the Doctor's hearts but there was the undertone of a threat there. The Doctor knew Mycroft could be perceived as a cold man, but he did care for his brother, in his own way of course. He knew that Mycroft would try every means the British Government had. But the Doctor still couldn't help.

"Sorry." He said, shutting his eyes, and desperately wishing he had never picked up the phone.

"What?" Mycroft asked the Timelord, surprised that he was, for who was ever sorry for Mycroft Holmes? He was watching it now, sat at his desk, papers in front of him, the only tell he had received of Sherlock's suicide being the whispers of his informants and the CCTV monitors to his left. Moriaty had played his ace, and Sherlock had taken the fall that was all possible because Mycroft had gambled. Harmless stories. Just childhood stories, how could he have known?

"I said, I'm sorry." The Doctor repeated, and looked up to meet Amy's gaze, who's eyes softened at the meeting of her Raggedy Man's. She knew that 'sorry'.

"You can't fix it can you?" The Doctor's attention was brought back to the phone as Mycroft's voice crackled again through it, a dull finality to the words that made a lump rise in the alien's throat. It was true. He could not help this time, no matter how much he wished to.

"No."

"Well…" On the other end of the line, in an impeccable dark brown leather chair, the eldest Holmes gave a forlorn smile. "Had to try, hm?"

"Yes. Again, sorry." Said the Doctor, rubbing his eyes. "Think of John, won't you?"

"I'll keep an eye out." He said. Then he slowly put the phone down and looked back at the grainy black and white CCTV TV screens. He looked at the blurred form of his brother…falling and falling. He saw on the second screen, the faint outline of John running and running. The bike, the bystanders. Then he flipped a switch, the screens went blank and he put his face in his hands.

What had he done?

On the other end, floating and tumbling through space, in the blue box, the Doctor listened to the dial tone for a few more seconds than necessary, letting the information slot into his head and his sadness to join the rest of his grief that nestled everlasting in his hearts. He looked up to Pond once more, before getting up off of the chair, and forcing a smile which the Scot knew was fake.

"Off to bed, Pond. New York tomorrow, that's what I promised!" He said, jovially, using his hands to shepherd her away and back up the stairs. She complied, knowing he'd want to tinker with his box to forget the phone call, and gave him an empathetic smile and a nod, as the Timelord plodded back down his steps, and sat back on his swing.

The Doctor's mind wandered, from his friends in London, to their enemies in London, and then finally rested on a nice, safe topic- what they were going to pop in the picnic basket when he took the Ponds to Central Park. Tourist-y stuff. Nothing would go wrong there.

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**Ta Da! Hope you like it. I'd love some reviews?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Both Sides of A Coin**

**Chapter 2**

John woke up, groggily, everything coming to him in patches of white and bright light. He was drowsy, and blinked multiple times, rapidly, as he stretched his jaw. Hospital. Everything was sterile and white, from the walls to the plump pillow he was laying on, that skirted the very edges of his vision. John Watson looked around, to see the gaunt face of Mrs Hudson. He wondered why he was here.

Foolishly, for he couldn't remember what had brought him here, he smiled at the woman who wasn't his housekeeper. In the coming months, he wouldn't smile again. But he thought it a dream; a stupid nightmare brought on by something leaking or worming its way into his system that Sherlock had left around the flat. That would be why he was in hospital- a drug of some sort, maybe in his tea. That was plausible and much more believe able than Sherlock being...well. Dead.

"Ah! Hello, Mrs Hudson! Where- Where's Sherlock?" John said, slowly but brightly, rubbing his eyes. But his resolve faltered as Mrs Hudson's face fell at the words and horror dawned on her face as she took in the words and the realisation that the aged army doctor had forgotten, that she had to deliver the news that Sherlock had fall. John sat up, his joints aching and mind confused. She went over, her eyes shining, plumping the pillow. Then Dr John Watson knew something was horribly, desperately, terribly and unequivocally wrong.

"Oh, John." The memories came back as Mrs Hudson uttered the words. Sherlock. The call. This is my note, John. Oh God. His throat caught, a lump quickly forming. But it couldn't been, he had thought, his head plonking downwards on the plush pillow. His hands reached for his head, rubbing his forehead before falling without grace onto the blanket as he tried to comprehend the information. Sherlock...dead. Suicide.

"He's dead." John said, dully, his voice thudding against the silence like a dull weight, a heavy truth that ended up pressing down on his chest. He looked at Mrs Hudson. She nodded, unable to stop the tears falling down her face.

He was brought back from the fog of his thoughts by a cool, small hand grasping his own. He looked up to see Mrs Hudson crying. He wanted to console the woman, console his friend but in the end, he just stared blankly outwards, uttering nothing as he thought of how Sherlock's hand had stretched out to him. John looked at the blank, white walls as the memory of Sherlock falling ran through his mind. Once, twice, many number of times so that he viewed in his mind with such clarity that he might as well been reliving it.

It was not till many hours later, when the other cool hand placed itself over his own and he focused back on Mrs Hudson. She had to leave. He nodded and had said his thanks in a daze. Then he was left in the dark hospital room, unable to get to sleep.

When he did...it was the first of the nightmares. He was used to night terrors, his military career doing a very good job of giving him material, and so when h woke up, sweating and crying out, the nurses rushing to him, John simply waved them off. He didn't want them. He just...had to remember to breathe. He had to breathe. Even if Sherlock wasn't.


End file.
